


Nothing Happens to Me

by DPS



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adoring John, Angelo's Restaurant, Awkward Sherlock, Boys In Love, Fluff, M/M, Sentiment, pilot!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9505322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPS/pseuds/DPS
Summary: John and Sherlock have been living together for a year in abnormal domesticity, and on January 29th John decides to have a re-do of their first night at Angelo's, but this time, John is determined to do it right.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy anniversary Sherlockians,  
> You good people deserve nothing but fluffy Johnlock for all your troubles in this fandom.  
> Cheers!  
> MC

_Nothing happens to me._

John shook his head as he read through his blog, reminiscing about the many ridiculous cases he and Sherlock had partaken in when he first moved to Baker Street. Remembering his first impressions of the enigmatic detective.

Arrogant, obviously a bit public school, and utterly fascinating: deducing John’s military career from his stance, haircut, and slight tan. His family history from a hand me down cell phone.

John realized soon thereafter that he wouldn't hold a chance against the enigmatic Sherlock Holmes.

_Who’d want me for a flatmate?_

‘How do you feel about the violin? I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other,’ Sherlock had quipped, so many months ago in the lab at St. Bart’s. John chuckled inwardly, as if that was the worst part about living with Sherlock.

_I have to go. I left my riding crop in the mortuary. Afternoon! *wink*_

No, John decided, the worst part about living with Sherlock was the day he opened the fridge, saw a pair of human eyeballs sitting on top of his leftover Chinese container, and shrugged it off as ordinary. Sherlock had made 221B with its madhouse experiments and explosions and bison skulls normal for John.

The sound of the violin in the dark of night waking him from his nightmares became soothing, and a case involving some sort of scuffle or gunshot or chase became the exhilaration to get John through his tedious work as a GP.

_Dinner? Starving._

‘Idiot’ swiftly became a term of endearment between Sherlock and John, as they swiftly settled into their abnormal normalcy at 221B. Nights of domesticity where Sherlock was muttering about an experiment involving pig intestine’s and John was reading another crime novel, ‘honestly John, its obvious that the Baker is the murderer, look at the passage about the flour markings.’

And through the nights of crime solving and days of grocery shopping and going to the surgery, John realized that Sherlock had quickly become John’s most important person.

The person he shared his life with, who he yelled at the clean the toxin ridden kitchen table and who he watched Bond marathons with on the telly while Sherlock complained about the inaccuracy of the depicted MI6. The person he looked forward to seeing the most everyday, even when the detective drove him up with wall when in a sulk. John’s nightmares had begun the wane considerably due to the days and nights spent with his best friend, the man who had saved him from the tedium of civilian life almost a year ago.

And in the dark of night, when John was locked away in his room only a floor away from the resident detective, he allowed himself to think about _more_.

If he and Sherlock ever became _more_ than just friends who solve cases together, and giggle at crime scenes, and tell Mycroft to piss off. If John could turn to Sherlock, grab him by his ridiculous coat collar and tug him down for a kiss or two.

At these thoughts, John would shiver at the possibilities, and drift off to sleep, leaving the idea of _more_ to his subconscious thoughts once again.

_John, you must know, I consider myself married to my work….._

And John knew that the Work was the most important aspect of life to Sherlock, the pursuit of the game and the thrill of success once the murderer was caught and apprehended. John knew that any form of sentimentality was viewed by Sherlock as a ‘chemical defect found on the losing side.’ John knew all of that, and accepted it.

But.

But what if John hadn't imagined the way Sherlock had flushed in the cab when John had praised him with a fond “amazing” after his deductions before turning away from John to peer out the window. What if Sherlock had only rejected John at Angelo’s because he simply didn’t understand human entanglements and romantic liaisons?

And John Watson may be a stoic British man, but he is not a coward. And he wasn’t nicknamed Three-Continent’s Watson for nothing.

So John began to drop subtle (or not so subtle, really) hints around the consulting detective after almost a year of their living together at 221B. First, he began to linger when he handed Sherlock his morning tea, inwardly smirking in the shocked blinking the detective would do before he dropped his hands away.

Then John began to praise the younger man with higher frequency on cases and shortly thereafter, but the praise was all genuinely felt if more vocally voiced. John had dialed back on outward praise since the first case, as Sherlock did not need the ego boost and John became embarrassed when his admiration was too visible. That said, Sherlock truly was amazing, and John had to reprimand himself internally for constantly looking at Sherlock like he was the most stunning creature John had ever seen.

John didn’t always succeed.

Anyways, one night about two weeks after he had begun his “wooing-Sherlock” plans, he decided to take Sherlock back to the beginning and have a re-do of that first sensational night. It had been exactly a year since they had met on January 29th, and while John should have been surprised he could remember the date, he wasn’t. Anything to do with Sherlock Holmes was significant to John.

“Dinner?” John asked, glancing up to Sherlock who was sitting in his armchair studying bee cultures from Sussex.

Sherlock glanced up with a quirk to his lips at John’s sentimental question, deducing John’s intentions to take them to Angelo’s, and gave the appropriate response, “starving.”

So they went off into the London night, the sounds of Londoners passing around the as they walked the few blocks to the restaurant, comfortable in the silence of each other’s company. John bit his lip in nervous anticipation, his hands clenching in his coat as he tried to formulate what he would say to his genius detective. But when John peered over at Sherlock, he saw the man was striding in his normally graceful manner beside John, and the doctor felt a sense of calm rush through him at the sight of his best friend. 

_Alright, you have questions._

They were seated in their usual spot by the window, with a candle placed on the table just like the first night. This time, John did not object to being called Sherlock’s date, only smiling warmly at the server and offering his thanks. Sherlock peered at him with an inquisitive gaze at his lack of rebuke, and then huffed as if frustrated by his inability to deduce John’s intentions.

“John” Sherlock called his name with his velvety baritone voice, “why did you want to go to dinner here?” John met Sherlock’s eyes. That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it? Why did John want to jeopardize the best friendship he had ever obtained for the sake of a confession?

Because, John reminded himself with a deep breath to calm his nerves, because of everything he could gain. They could gain.

“Well, you haven’t eaten in the past two days-“

“It slows down my transport John, I’ve told you-“

“And,” John spoke over Sherlock with a chuckle of fond exasperation, “I thought it would be nice to go to the same place we went to dinner the first night, a year ago.”

Sherlock looked blankly at John for a moment before realizing, “you mean, the cabbie case? That was a year ago today?” Sherlock looked surprised, as if he couldn’t believe John had remembered and he had forgotten. John giggled at Sherlock’s expression, feeling oddly calm in the wake of his pending confession.

‘I adore this ridiculous man’ John thought as Sherlock grumbled slightly in his seat at John’s ability to surprise him.

They ordered their food shortly thereafter, and once the waiter had left their cozy table, John stared a Sherlock, watching his often severe features become softened in the candlelight and the streetlights outside on the busy road. Sherlock broke their gaze, turning his iridescent eyes outside to peer at the street, perhaps searching for a case to distract him from the heavy atmosphere surrounding their table. John coughed lightly to get Sherlock’s attention.

“Sherlock” John began, “I brought you here because its been one year since we met, and moved in and started solving crimes.” Sherlock continued looking out the window in perceived disinterest, but John knew he was analyzing every word and gesture John made.

John cleared his throat once more and ran a hand over his face, steeling himself for possible rejection: “The first night, you made it clear that your Work takes precedence over any relationship, and I understand, but-“

“But?” Sherlock asked, finally turning to face John fully.

“I-I don't just want to _just_ be flatmates and friends. I have feelings for you” John whispered into the warm restaurant air, wondering if the words actually left his mouth, or if they were simply a figment of his imagination. Glancing up into Sherlock’s eyes, however, John saw that the traitorous affections had been expressed verbally, to Sherlock.

Sherlock, the self proclaimed High Functioning-Sociopath. The calculating machine.

John winced. 

Sherlock, for all his eloquence on normal occasions, was blinking in stunned silence.

‘Oh, no, I broke him’ John agonized internally, beginning to rethink this idea to confess to Sherlock as the detective continued to stare at him in silence, not a single facial expression giving himself away.

_Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we’re very lucky, he might even be a good one._

The stare off between the residents of 221B was broken by their dinners being delivered, and John gratefully tucked into his meal in order to ignore the anxiety clawing up his throat at Sherlock’s continued silence.

The younger man seemed to shake himself out of his stupor after a moment more, glancing away from John to fiddle with his silverware and begin picking at the pasta on his plate, thinking deeply and crinkling his forehead in the process.

'Adorable' John thinks, and then pushes that thought away. _Focus Watson._

Finally, after ages of agonizing silence on both their parts, Sherlock spoke, “that is-I- what you just said. That’s….good. While the Work is of the utmost importance, you are now a part of my Work." Sherlock finished with a determined nod.

John thought for a moment, "what, Sherlock, since you're married to your work, do you think of us as....?"

"No! John, not quite. Well perhaps a bit. You are my partner." Sherlock began the flush as he quickly rambled, "I mean, I too have feelings of a romantic nature towards you, despite my intellectual realization that such sentiments are a chemical defect, I discover with you John that they are” Sherlock took a gulping breath, “not entirely unwelcome.”

John gaped for a moment before his mouth spread into a warm smile, taking one of Sherlock’s alabaster hands into his own and squeezing it gently.

“Sentiment?” John queried after a moment.

“Sentiment” Sherlock replied with a nod.

_'You're not his friend, he doesn't have friends. So who are you?'_

_'I'm... I'm nobody, I've just met him.'_

The two men finished their meals between nudging each other's feet underneath the table and Sherlock telling an anecdote about a serial killing hairdresser to John's vast amusement. By the time the two men left the restaurant, they were giggling like schoolboys on their way back to Baker Street. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand once again, marveling at how natural it felt with the large, warm hand encasing his own, and they continued their leisurely walk home.

And, just like John was wont to do with all his dates, at the doorstep of 221B he lent up and kissed the surprised detective sweetly on his plush mouth, reveling in the sensations once Sherlock began kissing back equally as lightly, the two of them feeling adrenaline rushing through them that normally only came after the conclusion of a particularly difficult case. And while the kisses were innocent and mainly chaste, the rush of blood beneath their lips expressed the passion hiding beneath their actions. 'This' John thought to himself as he ran his arm down Sherlock's own to tangle their fingers together once more, 'this was worth the risk.' 

Sherlock broke off their kisses after a moment, breathing deeply and staring at John with wonder shining in his virescent eyes, his cheeks flushed a deep rose, and John smiled cheekily in response and tugged Sherlock past their doorstep, closing the door to 221B behind him. 

_Sherlock, it’s fine. It’s all fine._

And it was.


End file.
